From Four Till Seven
by MiddayFiddler
Summary: After the death of Grumann, there is no doubt about who is going to be appointed new Fuhrer of Amestris - except Roy Mustang has a bit too much demons from past and present enemies to reach his goal in peace.
1. Harvest Time

It was the time of harvest, and yet there was not a single person to be seen on the cotton fields.

,,They could have waited with the elections," he said, absentmindedly putting sugar into his coffee. The only answer to his comment was screeching of pens, rustling of heavy papers and feeling that Lieutenant Hawkeye will in the very near future throw all of them on his head for not doing his paperwork.

,,Well," he continued, disappointed from the lack of proper response, „at least we can finally finish all the preparations for the Xing railway."

,,As far as I can see, the only one doing some work here is me, Colonel," replied Riza, but it lacked the usual sharpness. He was sure as hell it had nothing to do with the harvest, nor with the mourn-band on her arm. After all, Grumann was nothing more for her then Fuhrer and was mourned by her as such.

,,The elections are just a masquerade anyways," he took a wild guess about what was bothering his favourite subordinate. ,,Everything will go..."

,,That's exactly it," Riza did not even look up from the papers. Once again, he was deeply fascinated by her concentration. His mind seemed to wander off every time paperwork was even mentioned, which is the reason why he is just drinking fourth cofee even if it is barely noon. It certainly does not help that there is wonderful autumn raging outside, complete with golden leaves, soft breeze and tiny spiderwebs floating in the wind. What did help even less was the fact that there was no one left in the whole building of Commisariat for the Restoration and the Development of Ishval. Not one person but him and Lieutenant.

The elections do not matter after all. The winner has been decided and Roy Mustang is the winner.

He left the mug on the table and looked at her. The wrinkle between her eyes was unusually deep, but maybe it was just a sharp ray of September sun irritating her eyes. Curtains did not belong to Ishvalian customs and they tried to accustom everything here back to their culture. He was sure there was nothing alarming in the documents from Capital – he had read them in the morning before Lieutenant came to the Office, not bothering signing them. The cotton will be picked tomorrow, the preparation works for laying rails are planned to start in April and by then, he will be Fuhrer and she will be the first lady of Amestris. Perhaps she had read the old news – news coming to this province are still two weeks late – about the riots before the Parliament building? He made a few calls to assure himself that they had been just unorganized group with no real influence whatsoever. Things like this have been happening every two or three months, political groups or religious groups or self-proclaimed working unions. Now back to the first lady part.

His attempts to hug Riza would be probably much more successful if she had not been having her back always turned to wall, he remembered bitterly as he was trying to find some gap for him to break her defense. He was pretty sure she would smack him afterwards though; she did not approve of any of displays of his affection at work. Or outside the work. Or actually anywhere at all, not until he will become a proper leader of Amestris. Which will be tomorrow, no worry, but they are alone in his office _right now_.

,,Sign this, Colonel," she handed him a thick pile of very repulsively looking documents. From the dangerous glitter in her eyes he deduced that she had seen through his intentions. The location of his head about three centimeters from her right shoulder might have helped her with reaching this conclusion.

He has seen angry Riza Hawkeye too many times in his life to know that the best thing to do next is to sigh and look for the nearest pen. And yet, browsing through the boring, so insanely boring contracts about the renting of the cotton and wheat fields and directives from Central -which could never be implemented because Central officers were incompetent diletants- he caught himself looking at her face. It did not seem to bear any signs of previous annoyance. Her expression was serious, but it has always been that way, when work matters were involved. He knew, of course he knew it was because of him. Just wait, he smiled and continued to scribble his name.

,,Sir, this…," she turned to him suddenly. There was a wrinkle on her forehead, the wrinkle that always promised unpleasant, unavoidable news. The kind that Roy hated the most – like the death of his best friend. No, he had only one, it cannot be…

There was a loud sound of the doorbell on the front door.

,,The elections probably ended earlier," he interrupted her, thankful for the disturbance that allowed to delay the moment of information.

There is something wrong, came to Roy's mind, as he was descending the stairs. The elections are public, have always been that way, every citizen of Amestris (because that is what Ishvalans are now, finally, after all those years – whether they want to be or not) proclaims that he or she agrees with Roy Mustang as new leader of their state, and they end with a pledge to the descended Fuhrer, the military and the republic. They were supposed to return together, every inhabitant of this town, and then get back to their work on fields, in clay pits or in the office here. Yet there is no one out there but some mysterious visitor.

In the Commisariat for the Restoration and the Development of Ishval, they are not used to greet unannounced visitors.

,,Good afternoon."

The man had grouchy voice, sweaty forehead and shiny black coat over military uniform, even though Ishval autumns could not be considered cold even by Drachmans.

,,I am looking for Colonel Mustang," claimed the man. Since his picture has been included in nationwide newspapers like every other week since he was twenty, Roy did not deem his proclamation exceptionally wise. Maybe the moustache was not that great idea after all.

,,That would be me, sir," he answered impatiently. If military officer decided to bless forgotten Ishval province with his presence, it certainly did not signify anything pleasant. That would be the second unpleasant thing today, pondered Roy and tried to enchant the stranger with his best Fuhrer smile. Maybe we did not fulfill the quotas for the export of wheat? Were there some complains? Was Olivier Armstrong actually chosen as future Fuhrer instead of him, as in his dream from two weeks ago?

,,_Sir_ Mustang," the man said, carefully giving emphasize on the word _sir,_ so that it would not accidentally escape Roy's attention.

,,Sir Mustang, I am entitled to inform you that the Highest Court of the Republic of Amestris decided to raise an indictment against your person for the reason of war crimes and crimes against humanity, as had been executed during the War of Ishval. Until the trial according to the Penal Law of Amestris, you are to be held prisoner in the facility of Central Prison."

The man looked on Roy, as if he was some especially disgusting kind of an ant, his eyes stalling on the gun on his belt.

,,If I may add, every attempt or intention to attempt escape will result in you and your complices being treated as a criminal highly dangerous for his surroundings. And treated as such," he added and made a barely noticeable gesture pointing to his pistol, as well as even more subtle head tilt towards the stairs.

I guess I will not get to finish that coffee today, told Roy to himself as he was handing his gun to the officer. And I still did not sign all the documents.

Riza will be mad when I will return.


	2. Purgatory

The boy was small for his age, had dark skin, unkept hair, embroidered silky scarf and a bullet wound on his forehead. He was lying on a concrete as if prepared to melt into the suffocating Ishval heat. Was he uncomfortable, is what my mind is asking. Because you are, my mind continues. Shut up, I can hear myself saying aloud. Someone laughs in the distance.

I am lying on a concrete floor. The lightbulb hanging above my head is as bright as desert sun, though I do not remember sun to flicker so much. That does not have to mean anything; I am not sure what I remember anymore. I would swear there was a bed before, or at least some piece of hard furniture expected to serve as one. Maybe it is still here. Why am I lying on the floor then?

I cried, I think.

There are steps, heavy boots on concrete floor. (Is everything here made out of concrete?) Somewhere not far from my head. They stop once in a while, probably to check on me. Waiting for me to wake up, and if I will not, they will make me. I quickly close my eyes again and open them just enough to see my surroundings. I remember where I am now, not clearly, but it must suffice.

They wanted me to say things. Not truth, just things.

I was taken to Central around two weeks ago, if I count well. Which I do probably not, for I lost consciousness far too many times. I've been here before. I cannot recall when or what for, but certainly I have already visited this part of prison, the part too clean for notoric criminals and too well-guarded for those accused of pick-pocketing. It's clean because nobody stays here for too long, I hear the voice of my guide from back then. Either they go mad or are found with veins bitten through before they are even sentenced to death. It should be called Purgatory, the guide laughed, those military folks have no imagination whatsoever. Truthfully, I suffer from lack of sense for grand metaphors as well, I replied and the guide stopped laughing, even though he still seemed content with what he considered witty remark. Military is full of self-indulgent fools.

I do not plan to get mad though, nor attempt suicide. And to execute me they would have to find a pretex. It is Amestris military we are talking about.

I did not tell them anything they would not have already known. I am sure about that; I was never particularly good at making things up. Even that little act with fishing and Elizabeth was coming from Riza's head. I told them about Ishval, I think. I do not remember much, since they hit me on the head once or twice and there was bright light and that annoying water dripping in the distance_. _I did not get much sleep past days either. Who am I trying to lie to, they did not let close my eyes for a second, not with all the screams that followed when I attempted to rest. Oh, so that is where my bed has gone. I think I should be rather grateful for that though. I haven't had those dreams for ages, the ones with sharp sand and heat you can actually feel burning your skin as if it was real and you wake up shivering in sweat. Other than that, I've been worse. Okay, maybe not that much worse, I had always been spared from experiencing interrogation methods of Amestris army. I think they were doing something similar in Ishval. I think I told them. They asked me to precisely describe methods of torture. How could I know? I was only Lieutenant back then, and State Alchemists were sent straight to the battlefield. I informed them that they were demanding absurd things from me, then they hit me once more and here I am, lying on a concrete floor of my cell. I have a feeling that I am not going to become Fuhrer anytime soon.

,,He's awake."

Oh, damn.

If they will start asking me the same questions again, I swear I...

Two pairs of strong hands took my arms and pulled me up. I realized I can do nothing against them, for my strenght was not what it used to be during my days in war. I know I used to say that the office work would kill me once, but I did not meant it _that_ literally. God, my head hurts.

,,So, Mustang, will you cooperate now?"

I was not exactly sure how was I supposed to cooperate or what had changed while I was knocked out, so I chose not to answer. Asking additional questions proved to be quite life-dangering already.

It seems I have a thing for making bad choices.

Well, I did not need those teeth anyway.

,,I repeat the question," the officer said, ,,did you issue the command to shoot into Ishval civilians during massacre of Bakra, northern Daliha?"

,,I wasn't there, you idiot!" I hissed, ,,I'm State Alchemist! I arrived..."

Bouquet of ice cold water found its way on my head and into my face. I was confused for just a moment and quickly able to focus again – my body took it a bit worse than expected though. It must have been an amusing sight on me, shivering, getting cramps in weakened limbs. Strangely, after few moments I realized that I felt refreshened, the weariness was gone, my vision sharpened and blood rushed into my head. The pain was significantly weaker as well, although I was not sure whether it was good or bad sign. My suspicion about my incarcerators' intentions was getting clearer, now that I was able to think properly.

,,I repeat the question."

,,There's no need," I replied quickly and cursed my voice for wavering notably. ,,My answer stays the same."

,,Fine."

The officer engaged into silent conversation with a man in civil clothing standing in the corner (journalist?) and gave me enough time to think. Did they ask me this question before? I would remember, such nonsense. I have never been to Bakra, no one of my unit was. I saw it only on the map. Civilian shootings, he said – who would care about such thing? It was everyday occurence, not only shootings, but freezing, suffocating with poisonous gas...burning. To death, to crisp. The names of those in command are well-known by now, although no one really cares (or is allowed to care, for that mater) about them and they live comfortable lives in villas with gardens in Central suburb or in West. I bet they do not have nightmares. Nor regrets.

The officer interrupted his talk and uninterestedly looked back at me.

,,I repeat the question."

There was cold water again, I was soaked and trembling and still had no idea what they want from me. It is not their goal to punish me for Ishval; even if it was, my conscience did damn good job on this part already. And if punishment was really the case, I would not be here alone. They would do the same things to all of the State Alchemists, to Major Armstrong, to Havoc, Breda, Fuery. To Riza as well. No, it is not time to think about Riza. She was fine, when I was taken, remember? In the office, frowning, doing paperwork in morning sunlight. Did she know they would come for me? Did she know something I did not? Cut it, Roy. It is not time to think about Riza, not now.

,,We have proofs you were in Bakra," the officer said and chuckled at the sight of me.

,,I was _not_ in Bakra."

,,You seem to be quite forgetful, Mustang."

He did not use my rank once again. Military officers are never addressed without rank, not even when they are charged with felony.

,,Show me those proofs," I barked. I was pushing it too far and I was fully aware of that. I was in no position to negotiate. Yet I needed last pieces of puzzle, and then I will be able to come up with some plan to get out of this mess. And get some food. Yes, food would definitely help.

,,You don't command here, Mustang," officer informed me calmly, as if I was not worthy wasting his precious emotions. ,,Just admit what we both know happened and this will end instantly."

Some cowardly part of my mind actually started considering this proposal in exchange for bed and lunch. I shunned it immediately, recognizing very simple and usually very efficient method for making prisoners confess. That will not work for me, sorry, guys, I smiled inside. You chose tough oponent.

I half expected them to start beating me again, as they did yesterday and day before. They were moderate in using violence until now though, at least for military standards – no visible cuts or bruisings, nothing bloody, just hits.

They headed for the exit instead. A bit anticlimatic, I would have said. I did not, because there was something suspicious in their doing, even more disturbing than demanding answers for answerless questions.

They locked the cell door without bringing me back bed or something to eat or drink and I finally remembered the face of the man I presumed to be journalist. I instictively shivered, and being wet and cold was not the cause.

No, this place is no Purgatory. No mater how much you regret your sins, the only way from here is to the Hell.


End file.
